Interwoven: The Seamstress and the Lovable Stray

Chapter 6

**

On a busy Saturday in March, Abby surveyed the sea of Hogwarts students that drifted throughout Gladrags, kept an eye cagily focused on the dish of mini-quills near the front door (some students tended to help themselves to handfuls on their way out, rather than to a polite one), and for the twelfth time that day, she thought of France. She had returned only a week ago, having spent most of February there, and now that she was home, Hogsmeade had never seemed more confining.

**

Abby did not quite know how she had made it through the Christmas and New Year festivities. Rosmerta had coerced her to a few parties in her flat above The Three Broomsticks, but Abby had no recollection of the hands she might have shaken or the toasts in which she might have half-heartedly joined. Work was simpler. There, she could easily mend a seam, prattle away, and flatter a customer, all without an ounce of true emotion. She kept that for home, where she would sit on the sofa and stare blankly at the haphazardly folded pile of men’s robes on the opposite end.

The first night that Sirius Black, and not Snuffles, had stayed at her cottage, he had left his ragged prison robes wadded up by the fire. The next day, Abby had offered to give the rags an extra nudge into the cinders. They had to have been an unpleasant visual reminder to him, she reckoned, and they were a rather unpleasant olfactory reminder to her. But Sirius, confound him, had wanted to keep the tatters. Abby had not questioned his motives, but she did give him a bucket, a bar of strong soap, and an invitation to clean them himself on the back step. After they had dried, Abby had balled the robes up and stuffed them in the far reaches of an unused cupboard. She had never really supposed that he would ever want them back – they were not much of a keepsake.

When Abby had awoken that December morning and found Sirius gone, she had not thought much of the situation, only assuming that he had got an early start on the day. But when she had returned home that evening, Abby had noticed and counted the pile of robes on the sofa, finding each and every article of clothing she had ever made for Sirius. Padfoot was covered with his fur, to be certain, but unless Sirius planned on going starkers during the human portion of his day, he needed something. Then she checked the cupboard. The Azkaban robes were missing, and beyond the hurt of his disappearance, she could not help but feel a painful sting at the thought that her offerings were not worth taking with him.

An owl from Dumbledore had come at Abby’s worst point, when she not longer cared what day of the week it was, whether the storeroom was adequately stocked, or even if the Gladrags till was correctly balanced. Taffeta Bussell, Abby’s former mentor, had written to tell Dumbledore of her new position at France’s most prestigious school of wizarding fashion, the Academie de Bellecouture. Madame Bussell planned to leave her cottage and enchanted silkworm farm in Provénce one week a month to instruct the school’s students on the finer points of the trade.

Despite her gloom, Abby had giggled at the thought of what Taffeta might be teaching; it was Madame Bussell who had first shown her how a bit of Billywig sting might be stealthily stitched into a buttonhole, making it difficult for particularly cantankerous customers to match a button to the subtly shifting opening. She had also taught Abby to appreciate a finely cast Invisi-Pin. But Abby did not dwell on that bit of history too long – it only brought back the memory of a more recent evening spent happily attacking soap bubbles.

Madame Bussell had written to request Abby’s assistance in teaching the advanced students who would soon be leaving school. As she knew of Abby’s magical gift, she deemed it wise to first ask if Dumbledore might spare Abby. Gladrags higher management had already given their approval, as Bellecouture held an enormous amount of prestige in the industry, and Gladrags was always eager to make a good impression on its students before Madame Malkin’s establishment could woo them away.

The journey to France would not have been too demanding, had it not been for the diversity of travel required and the difficulties at customs – Abby reckoned she must have used each method of magical transportation (except for Apparition, may the D.M.T. be forever cursed) thrice over, and she arrived at Bellecouture a rumpled, tired mess.

The students knew only her name and position in the Gladrags organization, but they welcomed her warmly. As Abby presented throughout the course of the week, they listened to her lectures attentively, asked her opinions on individual projects, and sought her advice as to different career fields. To be admired with no interference from her scholastic or romantic history was an unexpected experience, yet certainly a satisfying one. It almost made her forget that she had ever met a large black dog and the man that came with him.

Beyond the much-needed boost to Abby’s flagging self-esteem, the reunion with Madame Bussell proved quite fortuitous in another way. Her research completed, Abby was ready to begin the weaving project that Dumbledore had asked of her months ago. The reprieve from worrying and working over the Invisibility Cloak came as a breath of fresh air. Grandmother Connelly’s loom had been cleaned and prepared, but Abby was still hesitant to begin without first consulting an expert, and she knew of no one more knowledgeable in the workings of cloth. Madame Bussell’s workmanship was not that of a Weaver, but it was certainly magical. At the end of Abby’s lectures, the women traveled to Provénce for a day of discussion (with Abby in mind, Madame Bussell had already arranged a direct Floo connection).

“I want to create a garment that will capture the conversations of its wearer in the cloth,” Abby had explained at the onset of their meeting, sitting down to a table of cheese and croissants. “When magically activated, I hope for the thread to Transfigure the words to ink and create a permanent record of the wearer’s doings. I know, this does go a bit beyond mere hemming.”

Nodding her head, Madame Bussell seated herself at the table and spread a napkin across her elegant, plum-colored silk robes. Abby stifled a smile. The Saturday afternoon, still claim to February’s chill, begged for comfortable clothes and thick socks. Taffeta had certainly not changed; she would not empty a dustbin without being impeccably dressed.

“I don’t know that it’s been tried before, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done, Abigail,” Madame Bussell replied matter-of-factly. “Have you worked out a name, dear? You really must choose one, or some opportunist will come along later and take credit for the spell herself. I’ll never forgive myself for not laying claim to the Closure Charm. Hospital gowns have never been the same, and yet no one knows to thank me for them. That cursed Satina Mungo! If it weren’t for her family connections, she’d never have got her name on the label…” Madam Bussell’s voice and attention trailed off for a moment. “But the name, dear – do tell.”

Abby hung her head rather shyly and tore off a piece of her croissant. Though her mentor treated her as a confidante and equal, part of her would always feel like the sad, shy fifteen year-old girl that she had been when Taffeta had first taken her in. Abby had not shared the name of her innovation with anyone yet, not even Dumbledore. Sirius would surely have teased her about the alliteration. She took a deep breath.

“‘Whisper Weave’,” she said. “I plan to call it ‘Whisper Weave’.”

Madame Bussell widened her brown eyes appreciatively and gave a few quick claps with her hands.

“Ooooh, very nice. Very nice indeed.” She sighed emphatically, selecting a piece of cheese from the platter. “If only I had been born with a gift such as yours. I think I might have had quite a knack for espionage.”

Abby snickered. She had forgotten how enjoyable Taffeta’s theatrics were. “Would you like mine? You’d be quite welcome to it. But thank you – I like the ring of that name myself.”

Madame Bussell giggled herself, then, putting her cheese down, grew more serious. She twined her manicured fingers together and raised them to pursed lips.

“Now, tell me the specifics, Abigail. I think I may be able to help you.”

Abby felt as if she were a fifth year once more, presenting an idea for an extra-credit Transfiguration project for Professor McGonagall’s approval. Though she was sure of her ultimate objective and the spells necessary to reach it, she was unsure as to what kind of cloth might be impressive enough to catch Lucius Malfoy’s fancy.

Such a shame that “Methods of Enticing Dark Wizards” wasn’t part of the Hogwarts curriculum – I might have learned a pointer or two.

“I think the magic would hold up best in a cloak – it would provide for larger pieces of uninterrupted cloth. I want to create a fabric that would be both light enough for the spring and autumn months, yet warm enough for winter.”

So please don’t plan any wicked deeds for the summer months, Lucius.

“It must also be fine and luxurious enough to attract the attention of a rich, vain, and rather evil wizard,” she continued, beginning to feel rather apprehensive. “Oh blast, now that I’ve said that out loud, I’m getting a case of nerves.”

Madame Bussell reached across the table and gently patted Abby’s hand, then silently rose and crossed to the other side of the room to a large cupboard. Ducking her impeccably arranged coiffure (which Abby knew could no longer be naturally black), she reached far into the cupboard’s depths and emerged with her arms full. Returning to the table, she tipped a heap of skeins onto the table and pushed them over to Abby.

“Take these, dearest. I’ve traveled a bit in my life, and my seamstress blood has always compelled me to bring back a bit of thread from each place I’ve been. Malkin has always thought me a bit daft – she can’t understand acquiring these things if you don’t have the mind to actually use them – but for me, most of the pleasure lies in simply possessing the materials.”

Abby stared at the lustrous threads in wonder and disbelief. “Oh Taffeta, I can’t take these. I simply can’t – ”

“Nonsense, Abigail,” Madame Bussell replied with a smile. “It will empty my cupboards and give me a very good reason to accumulate more.”

Abby dabbed at her eyes, and then looked up at her former mentor gratefully. “And you won’t hate me if I dye them black?”

“Not at all. The very best of luck to you, child. I dare say you’ll need it – that wizard certainly sounds like a nasty sort. Now, let’s discuss which threads will work best together…”

Abby recalled how she and Madame Bussell had sat for hours, planning the construction of the cloak. The pages of notes in Taffeta’s elaborate, flowing script were in her cellar right now. Grandmother Connelly’s loom was threaded with the soft fibers, and soon Abby would commence with the…

**

Abby tore her thoughts away from weaving for a moment to observe a scene in the far corner of the showroom. A young man whom she recognized as Janet Diggory’s son, Cedric, stood on a pedestal, and Miriam, a new seamstress who had been hired on Chanella’s recommendation, was letting out his school robes. Apparently, his shoulders had recently widened. And apparently, Abby noticed with a slight smirk, Miriam seemed in no hurry to finish her task as she moved about and measured the handsome boy.

“Didn’t make much sense to buy new robes now, you know, since the year’s almost over for me,” Cedric was saying.

A petite girl with dark hair and eyes had accompanied Cedric into the shop, and she sat in a comfortable nook off to the side of the pedestal. She was hardly Cedric’s only company, however. A circle of girls clustered around a neighboring jewelry display. Abby knew there was nothing that fascinating in the case, and the girls were hardly discreet. From the snatches of conversation that floated over to Abby, she knew their interest was clearly more focused on biceps than brooches.

The girl with Cedric was reading a book, but Abby noticed that she took an ample number of opportunities to look up and flash Cedric a pretty smile. Cedric seemed only too happy to smile back. Abby watched them for a few wistful moments before turning her head away. She had to go and see on things at the register. She would only take a quick, self-indulgent moment to think back on Paris…

**

The second part of Dumbledore’s letter had asked if she would like to take a fortnight off to visit her father after the Bellecouture engagement. Abby had not hesitated to agree. Over a year had passed since she had last seen her dad. Of course, the demands of his job would keep him in the office most of the time, her father warned, but certainly Paris boasted enough attractions to hold her interest while he worked. She would stay in his flat in the Rue de Mentarie, the city’s first, most ancient wizarding street.

Though he was still the dear father she had always known, Hollister Loomis had altered in many ways since he had last lived in England. Overcome then with grief at his wife’s physical deterioration and death, he had been loath to leave their otherwise empty house for months. Abby had noticed changes in the past since then, but they were more readily apparent now – his step was lighter, his laughter more quick to surface. Even his white hair had grown out, Abby observed, the cascade of white waves giving him an air of some bohemian artist or writer. There had been a day when he would have been appalled if his hair reached even past his collar, but not now.

Abby spent several days happily roaming the Rue de Mentarie’s shopping district, poking her head in various shops, dining at outdoor cafés, and busily making notes on the current fashion trends of young French witches. The area’s lighthearted atmosphere made her want to forget she had ever attended Hogwarts, ever moved to Hogsmeade, ever befriended a certain prison escapee. In fact, the thought of Sirius crossed her mind only briefly when she engaged in coquettish banter with a handsome waiter, Jacques, and later accepted his invitation to attend a dance on the street that evening.

It had felt so nice to twirl about on the cobblestones as pretty music swirled out into the air overhead. It had been nicer still to feel the curve of Jacques’ arm around her back as they moved under the streetlamps. Yet as the night grew late and Jacques walked Abby back to the flat, she grew unexpectedly sad, wondering if she would ever had the chance to stand with Sirius Black under the open night sky. Perhaps sensing her unease, Jacques left her at the door with only a kiss on her cheek and the voiced hope of her visiting his café again soon.

Her time in Paris had shed light on a few other very interesting developments. On her second to last morning, Abby and her father had descended the one flight of stairs from his flat and set off for his work. He had chosen this dwelling, he had explained earlier, for the easy walk it provided to the Ministry’s building. Though Apparition was always available, he liked the exercise. The workload of the day ahead was to be light, and so Abby accompanied her father to meet his colleagues and tour the offices.

The scent of sweet, warm bread had greeted them immediately as they exited, leading Abby to close her eyes and breathe in the deliciousness. Paris was getting better with each day! In the days previous, she had not paid much attention to the bakery on the ground floor. Today she noticed an older witch, a few tendrils of silver hair escaping her loose twist of curls, rearranging the red and white checked curtains in the front window. Seeing the duo, the woman adjusted the delicate wire frames of her glasses and raised her hand with a coy smile. Abby turned to her father with an open mouth to ask the woman’s name, when to her surprise, she saw her father waving bashfully and smiling in return. Perhaps he had other reasons for his choice of residence.

“Daaaaad!” Abby cried, stretching the word out in several astounded syllables. “May I ask just who that was?”

Hollister became rather preoccupied with the loose cravat he wore atop his robes, seemingly oblivious to Abby’s question until she nudged him in the arm.

“Oh yes, her. Madame Belanger is her name. Yes, yes, a very nice woman. Makes excellent pastries. Ahem.” He quickly returned to straightening his cravat, as an unfamiliar flush of color spread across his usually distinguished face. Abby smiled to herself and wisely refrained from commenting further until they reached the Ministry offices, where she was caught up instantly in the continual stir of wizards and witches who surrounded her father with papers to sign, reports to review, and appointments to confirm.

“And would you believe this is a slow day?” Hollister had laughed.

Abby had realized quickly from the workers’ polite, interested tones that she was known there simply as Hollister’s daughter, not as a girl who could not make it past her fifth year of school. Encouraged, she had responded eagerly over lunch to questions regarding her profession, her business methods, and the current state of the international textile market. Her father had told her of the high points of his job and even shared a few grievances, including his office’s inability for months now to secure a meeting with the Ministry’s Head of International Magical Cooperation, Bartemius Crouch.

“His assistant seems enthusiastic enough, but it’s Crouch we need to see. He’d better be careful, before these things grow entirely out of hand,” Hollister had said.

Warmed from the pleasant day, Abby had left the Ministry building late that afternoon, beginning the walk home with a light heart and a smile on her lips. Perhaps she would stop by the bakery and purchase some pastries for dessert. There was a person whose acquaintance she was eager to make. As her shoes tapped across the now familiar cobblestones of the Rue de Mentarie and the sun began to set across the street’s quaint shop-fronts, Abby began to wonder how she would ever be able to return to Hogsmeade after experiencing this.

That evening, Abby had sat on the floor of her father’s flat, her legs tucked underneath her, trying her best to decipher France’s wizarding paper, L’Oracle. Conversational French was a requirement of her job, and something she managed fairly well, even though Jacques had gently corrected several of her pronunciations. Written French, however, was another matter. Hollister sat in a nearby armchair, reading a book and nursing a glass of amber liquid. Upon her arrival, Abby had presented him with a bundle of white cheesecloth, which he had carefully unwrapped to reveal a long-necked bottle, capped with a red seal.

“And this comes courtesy of The Three Broomsticks – thank Merlin it didn’t break with all the Flooing I had to do to get here.”

“Rosmerta, you kind, kind woman,” Hollister had murmured happily, holding the bottle up to the light. “We’ll save this for a later night, shall we?”

Now the bottle was uncorked, and father and daughter silently enjoyed their drinks, the box of delectables Abby had brought home earlier from the bakery, and each other’s company. Until…

“How goes your cloak, Abigail?” Hollister asked unexpectedly.

Abby looked up curiously. She rarely spoke to her father about her weaving, a situation created mostly by virtue of the distance between them. Owls could be intercepted, and fireplace conversations were not always possible between countries.

“It’s mostly complete,” she answered, “apart from the finishing. I suppose the cloak is magically destined for someone, and once I know who that person is, the final series of spells will reveal themselves to me. So far, they’ve been quite stubborn.”

She eased herself up onto the sofa and let out a deep sigh. “Mum never told you anything about the finishing process, did she?”

Hollister angled his head thoughtfully. “She always said that the cloak chose the wearer, and that it was vital to make it for the right person. Each cloak needed the best possible start in life, for optimal results.”

Abby snorted lightly. Her mum had always been a touch dramatic. “She pinched some of that from Mr. Ollivander, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but I always pretended not to know,” he laughed. A wisp of bittersweet nostalgia escaped him. “She was a remarkable woman, your mother.”

Caught up in reminisces, Abby and her father sat silently for a moment. “You must get lonely, Abigail,” he said at length.

“I get by,” she shrugged, picking up a cushion from the sofa. “I have company from time to time.”

Psychologically troubled, technically dangerous, poorly mannered, truly wonderful company.

“Dad,” Abby blurted out suddenly, “I’ve been feeling so resentful lately. I trust Dumbledore, but his decisions have directed over half my life. I’m not sure I want to do this much longer. I never asked to be a Weaver.” She stared morosely at the carpet and hugged the cushion to her.

“Nor did Albus ask to be Albus,” Hollister noted, laying down his book. “But he is, and we should all be very grateful for it. He’s accepted the obligations that life has put upon him. Trust me, dear – if you’d ever known his younger brother, you’d be very surprised that this all fell to Dumbledore.”

“But why do I have to continue the craft?” Abby interjected. “I’m sure there are others more willing, although I have no ruddy idea who they are and where they might be. Dumbledore once told me that Weavers have never known each other’s identities, unless they’ve happened to be in the same family. Dark wizards would never be able to locate all of us that way. I still don’t understand why so much has to be laid on my plate, though. I really don’t think I need to spend the remainder of my life weaving Invisibility Cloaks.”

“Actually, Abigail,” Hollister said softly, “I believe you do. As far as I know, you’re the last Weaver in Britain.”

Abby slumped guiltily as she heard her father’s words. There would be plenty of time later to mull over that disclosure, she decided. Right now, knowing she would shortly return to Hogsmeade and all it held for her, she wanted only to release one more bit of self-pity.

“That only worsens my chances for romance, doesn’t it?” she said with a wry laugh. “I’m already unable to promise a life of travel and great adventure. The loom isn’t exactly portable, you know. And now I’m an even greater target for Voldemort’s followers, although I doubt they’ll ever suspect the likes of me. Who would ever want what I have to offer?”

Hollister smiled at his daughter, his eyes glowing kindly. “Your mother experienced many of the same sentiments, dear child, prior to our meeting,” he said. “I’m sure there were times she would have preferred her single life once she was stuck with me, but we did manage to have a very happy life together. Yes, we did. And when the time is right, Abigail, you will find someone who will understand your calling and accept it as part of his life with you.”

“I’ll have to take your word on that,” she said with a sigh, helping herself to the last éclair. A note of mischievousness crept into her voice. “Do you think I’ll be able to find someone who can make such delicious pastries?”

Abby shielded her éclair, giggling, as a cushion sailed in her direction. And the next morning, she had left for home…

**

“Ouch!!”

A very full schoolbag, followed by a passing body, rudely interrupted Abby’s musings. Their combined force knocked her slightly off her feet and painfully into a nearby pillar. Abby rubbed her hip gingerly, cursing the overcrowded showroom, until she saw the sheepish face of the gangly, freckled boy who turned around to apologize.

“I’ll be splinched,” she said with a grin, setting her professional demeanor aside for a moment. “You certainly look like a Bill Weasley I once knew.”

“Yeah,” the redheaded boy said, shifting awkwardly. “I’m Ron. Bill’s kid brother. Uh, sorry about that. Are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” Abby replied, smiling again as she marked the Weasley resemblance. “That is a compliment, I’ll have you know – Bill grew up to be one very handsome fellow.”

Ron blushed furiously; the girl to the right of him scowled.

Abby extended her hand to the boy. “Abigail Loomis. Welcome to Gladrags Wizardwear.”

She then turned to Ron’s companion, her greeting stopping on her lips as she wondered if the girl would be receptive to a sample bottle of Gilderoy Lockhart’s Mane-Tamer Maintainer. She quickly decided that the wild thatch of curls was actually rather becoming, in its own way. Besides, people had been mentioning lately that the heavy perfume of the Lockhart potions never fully went away, and this girl looked like she preferred the scent of a properly musty library to that of a gardenia bush in full bloom.

“And you are, dear?”

“Hermione Granger,” the girl replied in a businesslike manner.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Abby said warmly. “Give me a shout if you need anything.”

“Uh, thanks,” Ron replied for the both of them, craning his long neck around. “Hey, where’d Harry get off to?”

For the first time, Abby noticed a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy standing a few steps behind Ron and Hermione. He must have been the bearer of the brutal schoolbag. The boy stood still, staring blankly into the corner where Miriam was working. Abby was puzzled, until she peered back into the corner for herself. Oh, yes – Cedric Diggory. His rival in the Triwizard Tournament. Abby felt a pang of motherly sympathy. Poor Harry. He was probably feeling quite in over his head in all this, just as she was.

“C’mon, mate,” Ron was saying, tugging on Harry’s arm. “Let’s go and pick out some socks for Dobby, the nastier the better.”

“Harry, you should apologize,” Hermione was whispering fervently. “Your bag knocked right into that witch.”

Jostled from his observations, Harry turned to Abby and mumbled an embarrassed apology. Abby looked fully at the tousled hair, the scarred forehead, and the bright green eyes for the first time. She helplessly tried to sort through the countless things she wanted to say to him, settling in the end on the most feeble and prosaic:

“I’m fine – please don’t trouble yourself. I’m Abigail Loomis, the general manager. Thank you for coming to Gladrags.”

And by the way, my grandmother made your Invisibility Cloak.

“Harry Potter,” he mumbled in return.

A wave of shoppers then cut between Abby and the trio; by the time the crowd cleared, the students had already started off for the sock display. Abby watched their retreating figures wistfully, but the students did not go far. An insolent, drawling voice soon stopped them, and Abby turned to see none other than Draco Malfoy standing behind her.

“I normally replace my cloaks after a few months’ wear,” the blond-haired boy was saying quite audibly, “but as my mother chose this for me especially, I’ll have a new lining put in and wear it until the end of the season. Perhaps then,” he added, raising his voice even further, “I’ll send it away to the less fortunate. Imagine – some families actually have to hand their worn-out rags down to the younger children. I’d rather die first.” With that, he shot a snide look in Ron Weasley’s direction.

Ron’s face grew so red, Abby began to fear for the safety of her clothing displays. She had never had a brawl in the shop before, but considering that Draco Malfoy was the aggravator, she was almost curious to see what might happen. Ron advanced a few steps forward with clenched fists, but Hermione acted first.

“Why don’t you replace the lining with something warmer, Malfoy?” she called out. “You look so fetching in white fur!”

Ron halted, looking back at Hermione with a strangely pleased, proud look. Harry, on the other hand, laughed so hard at her remark that he buckled over, clutching his stomach. Each time he tried to stand, his convulsive snorting and the weight of the schoolbag sent him down again. Eventually, Ron had to pull him back up.

“Are you fond of furs, Mr. Potter?” Abby asked confusedly. She felt as though she was not quite grasping the meaning of the students’ exchange.

Harry snickered even more and leaned into Ron for support. “Only if they bounce!” he gasped, keeling over again. The two boys erupted into loud guffaws and walked away, elbowing each other in the side. Although Hermione rolled her eyes in their direction, she smiled fondly as she excused herself and went after her friends. Abby turned around again to see a very livid Draco.

“She’s incompetent,” Draco snapped with a peevish gesture at Chanella, who had been handling his cloak. “I refuse to wait here any longer if I’m only going to be attended to by underlings. You may serve me, Miss Loomis.”

Abby almost took a bite out of the inside of her cheek as she gave Draco a polite, controlled smile. For a second, she entertained the thought of throwing him bodily from the shop herself.

I never imagined that I might be the one to start a brawl!

“I’ll be with you directly, Mr. Malfoy. Please give me a moment to speak with Miss Parker.”

Abby took Chanella by the arm and led her away, while Draco looked highly pleased at the possibility of a public chastisement.

“Chanella,” Abby whispered hurriedly when they were out of earshot. “I’m so terribly sorry. Pay him no mind, dear. Can I trust you to see that Mr. Malfoy is sent out the door with a Chafing Charm today?” She gave Chanella’s arm a reassuring squeeze before returning to Draco and his cloak.

“Mr. Malfoy, I hate to keep you in the hustle and bustle out here,” she said graciously, even giving him a small nod of apology. “Shall we move ourselves to another room, where I might attend to your cloak properly?”

With a grunt of impatience, Draco followed Abby to a private fitting room. “Stupid Hufflepuff,” he stopped to mutter as they passed the back corner. Cedric Diggory had stepped off the pedestal with his newly altered robes hanging quite nicely on his shoulders, nearly causing a swooning epidemic among his barely hidden admirers.

In the fitting room, Abby did her best to wait slavishly on Draco and repair the damage that Hermione Granger’s comment had done to his temper. After arrangements for the cloak were completed, Abby bowed her head courteously and took a deep breath.

“Mr. Malfoy, if I may be so bold, may I ask if your mother would be interested in a private showing of our newest finery? I don’t wish to inconvenience her with a visit to town, and so I would be more than happy to bring the merchandise to your family manor, if she so desires.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’ll ask her,” he said shortly, before turning and leaving the room. Abby collected her things and followed him out, wondering again what she was getting herself into. As before, Ron Weasley disrupted her thoughts before they got much further.

“Hermione! Hermione! Ah, c’mon, don’t ask that now!” his voice rang out.

Abby turned to see Hermione Granger approaching her with blazing eyes and determined steps.

“Gladrags doesn’t use elf labor, does it?” the girl asked in a tight, clipped voice. “Because it really shouldn’t. No business should. No person should. No country should. No – ”

Hermione seemed to realize suddenly that she was speaking rather brusquely, especially when her original question had not yet been answered. She hesitated, bit her lower lip, and tempered her words.

“House-elves should have a say in their lives, that’s all. And once I help them see that, once they realize...”

Abby laughed good-naturedly. Hermione, though certainly opinionated, was endearing in her conviction.

Sharp as a pin, she is. I think I’d like to make her better acquaintance someday.

“What you see is entirely witch- and wizard-made, Miss Granger, but the house-elves – ”

Abby had meant to say that the Hogwarts house-elves did fantastic mending, but the sight of Ron waving his arms frantically behind Hermione sidetracked her. Next to him was Harry, widely mouthing the word “Nooooo”.

“ – the house-elves at Hogwarts are quite hard-working,” she concluded. “Yes, they are.”

Ron and Harry groaned.

Hermione nodded in brisk concurrence.

“You’re right, Miss Loomis. You’re absolutely right. And for that, it’s simply not fair – it just IMPOSSIBLY unfair – that they should receive nothing, NOTHING for their – ” Her words broke off abruptly. Ron had seized Hermione by the shoulders and was steering her purposefully toward a display of educational hosiery, which seemed to effectively stall the impending tirade. As interesting as the Stonehenge Stockings were, however, Abby did not think they merited the pink-cheeked delight on Hermione Granger’s face all on their own.

How sad that they don’t have access to Hufflepuff Turret. They might need it in a year or two.

Abby later saw the three students laughing over the singing Ode-Aroma socks in the novelty section, and though she tried to wade through the crowd and have another word before they left, a mishap with a pair of Glue Gloves kept her occupied. She watched as their three heads, close together in private conversation, moved out of Gladrags and passed down the High Street. She had entirely forgot to ask if Harry might know the whereabouts of her lost dog.

**

The second to last day of April began very badly for Abby, despite the things in life that currently gave her pleasure. She had already made a good start on the Whisper Weave cloak, to begin with – Taffeta’s advice had proved invaluable, and the cloth Abby had woven so far was rich and soft, almost tempting her to keep it for herself. And then thanks to the Triwizard Tournament and its attending crowd, Gladrags’ sales had never been higher. The “Golden Needle”, a trophy of commendation from the higher management, rested on her mantelpiece. But the fabric of the Invisibility Cloak waited still on the timbers of her finishing frame, still unfinished, still unclaimed. Abby was beginning to look on the cloth as an inescapable black storm cloud that hovered continually overhead, just biding its time until it released a deluge on her.

And even now, she remained her cottage’s single occupant.

If there was any pathetic good to be found in the situation, Abby morosely reflected, it was that her encounter with Sirius Black had served to take her mind off William Lowby. While she would always keep her memory of Will dear, she was ready to bid a tender goodbye to her all-consuming tie to him…or so she had thought until that April morning, when she her found herself in a black mood that was impossible to shake.

Remnants of a dream had been hounding her throughout the day. It had been a reoccurring dream, one in which she would sit in Hufflepuff Turret during the late spring, cradled in Will’s long arms. Together they would watch evening set over the Forbidden Forest. Then she would turn her head, look into his eyes, and his lips would move toward hers… But in the dream last night, Will’s eyes had not been their usual brown. They had been a different, although unsettlingly familiar, colour altogether. And his mouth, though darling, had never pulled up at the corner in that manner…

Abby had woken up flustered and on her way to being very late for work. She had thrown a pillow off the bed in irritation; the pillow then took swift flight and knocked her favorite lamp to the ground, shattering it to pieces. A shard later caught in her shoe, further delaying her. Once at Gladrags, she had discovered that due to a clerical oversight of her making, the shop had only Knuts with which to make their customers’ change that day. It had the beginnings of a rotten, evil morning, and things only got worse when Lucius Malfoy swept through Gladrags’ front door.

Immaculately groomed from head to well-shined boot, Lucius gazed around the showroom with look of disdain. Gladrags, it would seem, was blessed for his very presence. Abby took a few quick, startled breaths before leaving the front counter and approaching her customer, stumbling over her feet along the way. On any other morning she might have been able to more quickly adapt, but the persistent vision of discordant eyes in Hufflepuff Turret made keeping her wits about her difficult. There was no need to conjure up a case of nerves or feign intimidation, she thought, not today. She felt uneasy enough already. But Lucius Malfoy seemed to expect subservience and awe from those who waited on him, and so her worries might play to her favor.

He looks as if he expects the very walls to bow before him – if I were to actually fall on my face, he’d take it for a show of admiration.

“Master Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you. How may we be of service today?”

“I require dress robes,” Lucius answered shortly, surveying the showroom again. By his tone, he entertained no possible hope of finding anything to his satisfaction in Gladrags.

“Of course, sir. May I ask how soon you will need them?”

Lucius turned his sleek blond head and looked at Abby icily. “I will return for the robes in one hour, Miss Loomis, at which time they will be ready, do you understand?”

Abby bobbed her head quickly. “Yes, of course. We are happy to extend such a service to our valued clientele. We keep our finer fabrics in the back, away from the general public – will you accompany me there, please?”

Abby retreated nervously to the rear of the showroom, acutely aware of Malfoy’s footsteps behind her. She would start out small, she silently decided to herself. First she would try to become a trusted resource for Narcissa Malfoy’s fineries. Once that relationship was established, she might begin to suggest gentlemen’s wares. By that time, the Whisper Weave cloak would be completed. Perhaps Dumbledore knew of other monitoring devices she might also introduce. But now, she need only worry about this initial obstacle…

Lucius stood against the fitting room wall, his arms folded fastidiously across his chest, watching as Abby pulled swatches and bolts of cloth from their cupboards and laid them across a table. She worked hurriedly, not wanting to remain in Master Malfoy’s company a second longer than necessary. Swept up in her work, she was in no way prepared for him to actually speak to her:

“Did you attend Hogwarts, Miss Loomis?”

“Yes.” Startled at the unexpected question, Abby looked back at Lucius, and then quickly reverted her eyes to the fabric. “I believe I was a few years behind you, sir.”

Lucius allowed a discomfiting pause to linger before continuing.

“And to which house did you belong?” His voice was taunting in its coolness.

“Hufflepuff House.”

“I see,” Lucius replied, his eyebrow lifting up a fraction. “Hufflepuff House. And you joined the Gladrags establishment after leaving school?”

Lucius’ questioning was all too obvious. Abby seethed inside, but she left her words quiet and even, shaded with the appropriate traces of awkwardness and shame.

“No, sir. I came to Gladrags after my fifth year,” Abby said, not meeting his eye. “Circumstances prevented me from completing school. Now sir, if you would like to select the fabric for your robes...we have several that I hope will meet your standards.”

Sifting through the samples offhandedly, Lucius glanced at a few price tags and tossed a swatch of an expensive Italian blend in front of Abby. She noted the smoothness of his hands, as though he did no greater manual labour than pick up an occasional quill.

“Then you must find this work more suited to your abilities, Miss Loomis,” Lucius said, with the air of resuming their initial “conversation”.

“Yes, sir, it is,” she replied meekly, pushing the remaining samples and dreading what came next, especially when she knew she could do this work by other means. “Now if I may take a few measurements, please…”

Abby dropped her measuring tape as she approached Lucius, who had stepped away from the wall when he examined the fabrics. She fumbled as she bent down to pick it up, her hair getting in the way. She had worn it loose that day, in mild rebellion toward her recent birthday. It hung well past her shoulders, with only the sides pulled back in tortoise-shell clips.

“Forgive me, sir,” she mumbled, retrieving the tape. “I don’t wish to keep you longer than necessary.”

And if you only knew how much I really mean that, Lucius.

The foolishness of her hairstyle became even more obvious when she stooped down to take the measurement of his back seam. Lucius Malfoy and his friends had bothered her back in the days of Hogwarts, and being alone in his presence now was certainly no treat. For the second time, Abby dropped the measuring tape. The light-brown strands slid around her shoulders once more as she bent down, apologizing profusely, and picked it up.

As she rose again, Abby experienced the brief, yet unmistakable feeling of fingers lightly catching her hair – neither a pleasant nor a welcome sensation. Every part of her wanted to jolt upwards, and she fought hard to control the sudden heave in her throat. Through staggering effort, she kept her motions calm and steady. As her eyes climbed upward, she dared a glance at Lucius. An unreadable expression was on his face – one that she was not about to try to decipher – and his hands hung immobile at his sides.

Oh Merlin, I didn’t bargain for this.

“Thank you for waiting. Your robes will be ready shortly.” Abby took a deep breath. Luckily, her position hid her unintentional shiver from his view. “Sir, if I may be so bold, might I offer to arrange a private showing of our latest merchandise for Mistress Malfoy? We have some exquisite things arriving soon – ”

“I have been told as much,” Lucius interrupted curtly. He turned to look Abby full in the eye, as though to toy with her unease. “Do you believe my son incapable of relaying a simple message, Miss Loomis?”

Abby hung her head, her cheeks burning. “Of course not, sir. Please forgive me. However, if your wife would like me to bring the items to the Malfoy manor, I would be happy to comply.”

“Now, why would you be so eager to do that, Miss Loomis?” he asked with a soft sneer.

Abby twisted the measuring tape back into a tight roll before meeting Lucius’ gaze. Her voice shook slightly, part of both her pretense and her revulsion. Whether it had been inadvertent or not, she had sensed something in her hair…

“I know Hogsmeade is a small town, with little to hold your interest. As I am sure you understand, the Malfoy family’s patronage means a great deal to our shop.”

Her answer seemed to satisfy him. Without a direct answer, Lucius appraised Abby once more, then turned to leave. “I will return in an hour,” he tossed over his shoulder as he exited the room.

Abby made the robes as quickly as possible after Lucius left, muttering hexes with each slice of the cloth, then retreated to her office to sink her head into her hands. Feeling her hair tumbling over her shoulders once more, she twisted the mane angrily into a messy knot and speared it with a spare quill. It might look ridiculous, but it would serve the purpose. She hit the surface of her desk in disgust.

Please, please let that have been an accident.

Claiming a headache, Abby left Lucius Malfoy’s robes with Chanella at the front counter and spent the remainder of the day in a series of irate exchanges with Gringotts goblins regarding the Knut situation. The problem was not fully rectified until well after shop hours, and Abby groaned as she looked at her watch. With the events of the day, she had completely forgotten about her scheduled meeting with Dumbledore that night. Although it would be more convenient to leave directly from Gladrags, she was going to Hogwarts without stopping by her cottage first.

Dusk was falling over Hogsmeade as Abby scurried down her lane, hoping that Hubert the owl had already reach Dumbledore with her apology.

“I’m not going anywhere without washing out the Lucius first,” she muttered at the front door as she yanked the quill from her hair, oblivious to the large black shadow in the space between her home and the Boormans’.

**

The feeling of lateness chafed at Abby as she raced towards Hogwarts in the dark, almost two hours behind schedule. With any other appointment, she would have tried to reschedule once she had known there was no chance of being punctual. But as she did not know when the next opportunity to see Dumbledore would arise, she would have to simply swallow her pride and scurry faster.

With that morning’s dream still lingering in her memory, Abby squinted in the dark as the castle grew nearer. Yes, there it was – Hufflepuff Turret. Not the tallest of the towers, and certainly not the grandest, but beloved all the same. Abby could never have imagined, back when the sight of Will Lowby in a Quidditch uniform and the fortuitous nature of alphabetical seating charts were forefront in her mind, that her life would end up like this. Pausing on the grass, breathless from the run, she touched a hand to her lips and raised it in farewell before resuming her course to Hogwarts’ great front doors.

The halls were mostly empty as she made her way to Professor Dumbledore’s office, most of the students having retreated to their common rooms by this hour. “Mallow Mice,” Abby wheezed as she reached the familiar gargoyle, clutching a stitch in her side. Despite her anxiety, she smiled. Creamy white centers, chocolate coatings… Mallow Mice were actually quite tasty, and she deemed them a much better choice for a password than their unappealing predecessors.

The gargoyle stepped aside, and a voice beckoned Abby into the office before she even reached the top of the spiral staircase. The headmaster was sitting at his desk, sipping a cup of cocoa and – she cocked her head curiously to see – sorting Chocolate Frog cards. A smile broke across his face when he saw her.

“Abigail! I thank you for coming, as always. Please be seated, and tell me all about France. How was your trip?”

“Oh, it was wonderful. Truthfully, I hated to leave.” Abby sank gratefully into the comfortable chair across from Dumbledore and accepted the cup of cocoa he handed to her. “I apologize for being late, sir. It’s been a dreadful day.” Though she was heated from her run, the night was chilly, and her hair, though now plaited and pinned up, was still damp from its recent washing.

“Please, do not worry, dear – I received your owl,” Dumbledore said, holding his long beard aside as he refilled his cup. “Taffeta said she had a lovely time with you. I was quite pleased to receive her letter, as I do believe she has finally forgiven me for cutting parchment snowflakes with her best pair of sewing shears.”

“Sir, you didn’t,” Abby gasped, grinning.

Dumbledore nodded gravely. “I did, and I advise you to never anger a spirited French witch. I have learned that on many an occasion.” He took a sip of his cocoa, smiling at her over the rim.

“I understand that you have come up with a name for your latest endeavor?” the headmaster asked after a pause. Abby nodded her head, still catching her breath.

“I have,” she replied. “I’m going to call it ‘Whisper Weave’.” She stopped, blushing at his broad smile of approval. “Sir, did you give any thougth to how the cloak might be verified? I don’t know much about the workings of our courts, but if this cloak is ever used in a trial, I would hate for it to be discredited.”

Abby shuddered suddenly, considering for the first time an even worse possibility.

“Headmaster, do you think the Dark Arts would be able to detect the cloak’s purpose? Could they sense the magic in the cloak? I didn’t even think about that… Should someone look it over? Alastor Moody, perhaps? I haven’t had the chance to see him all year. How is he?”

“Alastor is happily terrifying students,” Dumbledore replied with a twinkling eye, “but I hate to bother him now. He has been quite generous already in helping to prepare the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. I have another man in mind – Errol Klarion. Do you know him?”

Errol Klarion? Abby tossed the name over in her mind, envisioning the dark-haired, solemn-faced boy who had come to her rescue on a long-ago school day. Yes, she did know Errol Klarion.

Oh, why couldn’t he have come to Gladrags today and lobbed a few good curses at Lucius Malfoy for me?

“If memory serves, Errol and I have met. Is he…familiar with the Dark Arts, sir?”

“His family situation has made that knowledge a necessity,” Dumbledore answered with a look of frankness, “although I trust Errol implicitly. When the Whisper Weave is completed, I will call upon him for assistance.”

Abby nodded. Very well. “When you do see him, please let him know there is a pair of free robes waiting for him at Gladrags. I believe I owe Errol a favor.”

She set her cup down and sank back into her chair. Though that worry was resolved, she remained rather annoyed with herself for the oversight – she had believed everything to be so well thought-out. As she stewed over the myriad other ways in which the plan could go wrong, the happenings of the day began to join together into a giant ball of frustration. The dream…the lamp…the unwanted touch… The ball quickly gained momentum, prodded along by Dumbledore’s next question.

“And how are things in the rest of your life, Abigail?” he inquired gently.

Abby felt her tiredness, physical and otherwise, in every inch of her. The lateness of the hour hung heavily on her mind, and while she knew her next words were better left unsaid, but she could not stop them from coming.

“Well, my only family lives in another country, the village thinks I’m a flighty twit, and Lucius Malfoy sickens me,” she muttered, avoiding Dumbledore’s eye. “Even my dog ran away,” she added with a final, bitter laugh. She drained the remainder of her cup, a measure that proved providential, as she almost dropped it to the floor when Dumbledore spoke next.

“You must miss him, Abigail,” he said softly. “And if I am not mistaken, he misses you, too.”

Abby stared across the desk quizzically. It was almost as if he… She gave her head a slight shake. Dumbledore was renowned for many things, but she had never known him to telepathically communicate with animals. Unless… She started, lurching upward from her chair, her mouth half-open in a question she did not dare ask.

Dumbledore met her searching gaze squarely. He extended an open hand, bidding her to be seated again. But as confusion yielded to comprehension, Abby’s eyes stormed over with a greenish-blue fire.

He knew. He’s always known.

“Please understand that it was not the time, Abigail,” he continued. “It was not the time.”

Abby looked stonily at the headmaster’s outstretched hand, then back at his face. Her eyes began to sting, and her jaw clenched. Without another word, she turned her back on Albus Dumbledore and walked from the room. Tears caught up with her before she could escape the school. Her vision blurred, she barely noticed the small crowd of exiting students that she pushed through as she ran past the library. She wanted only to go home, even though there was little chance that she would feel better there.

He knew, and I’ve just been a puppet.

The journey back to Hogsmeade passed in a blur. As she entered the village, the clacking sign of The Three Broomsticks, swinging in the night wind, caught her attention. On impulse, Abby veered from the path to her cottage and ran to the side of the pub. Her feet clicked hurriedly up the wooden staircase to Rosmerta’s flat, where she rapped on the door with shaking hands. After a moment, a startled Rosmerta cracked open the door, pulling on her wrapper. Her dark curls were down around her shoulders.

“Abby!” she gasped the sight of her winded, tear-stained friend. “Are you all right, love? Are you hurt?”

Abby held up a hand to stop her. “I’m fine, Rosmerta, I’m fine. I’m just – it’s just that – that I – ” A loud hiccough and an even louder wail ended her sentence.

“Oh, Abby…” Rosmerta murmured, opening the door completely and putting her arms around her. After a few good sobs, Abby lifted her streaked face off Rosmerta’s shoulder.

“Do you ever want to just bag it all and run off with a Muggle?” she laughed tearfully.

“More times than I can count, dearest,” Rosmerta replied as she pulled Abby inside. “More times than I can count.”

**